


who will dry your eyes when it falls apart?

by jordantodd



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Daddy Issues, Eating Disorders, Gen, Gideon Bashing, Hurt Spencer Reid, I Love Bullying Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid is bisexual fight me, Well - Freeform, i can have little a projection. as a treat, im not projecting this time i swear, theres a tasteful amount of projection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:35:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25758937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jordantodd/pseuds/jordantodd
Summary: spencer reid’s just trying to navigate his way through life as a twenty-something genius, so why does the world seem set on screwing him over?
Relationships: Elle Greenaway & Spencer Reid, Jennifer "JJ" Jareau & Spencer Reid
Comments: 30
Kudos: 101





	1. were you ever lost?

**Author's Note:**

> cw: disordered eating, vomiting, forced eating, a whole lot of daddy issues, william reid being a dick to his son

He'd always been a picky eater.  
Most kids were, it was quite normal. But, eventually, you grow out of it, and usually, it isn’t quite as bad as he had it. When his mom was lucid enough to cook for him, she’d insist that he should expand his horizons, try something new, that the only way to grow out of his habits was through exposure. Tomatoes aren’t that bad, Spencer, they won’t kill you – you like pizza, and ketchup, you’ll be fine. 

Evenings like that often lead to a big family meal, just like tonight.

His father sat at the head of the table in his dress shirt, napkin tucked into his collar and hair slicked back, fingers pale from gripping the silverware just a bit too lightly. Tight-lipped, watching with those beady dark eyes, waiting for someone to slip up. He bade his time like a predator in the underbrush; elbows on the table were sins to William Reid, just as taking a bite before saying grace was, just like refusing whatever food you’d been given.

William Reid had a routine for family meals, one he rarely deviated from. To him, it’s comfortable, it’s easy, it’s methodical.

Spencer and his mom sat opposite each other, reaching over the serving dishes to clasp their hands together to say grace. His mom’s hands were bony, but soft, too frail as the weight shed off her more and more, whilst his father had a firm grip that engulfed Spencer’s whole hand, completely disregarding his son’s discomfort at the contact.  
His dad said grace in that monotonous drawl of his, thanking God for the wonderful meal they’d been blessed with, seeing as there were so many people who were not afforded such luxuries. From his seat, still not tall enough to properly see over the table without sitting on a stack of law books, Spencer wondered just how bad normal food would have to be if this was a blessing.

Afterwards, his mom piled a heaping serving of whatever she’d cooked that evening onto his plate, him watching with wide eyes, knowing that there was no way he could stomach it, let alone a portion of that size.  
“Oh, doesn’t it just look delicious, Spencer?” His mom inquired with a smile from ear to ear, the type that was rare on her, thin skin crinkling around her eyes. He nodded, to not be impolite.

“It looks great, mom. Is that tomato?”

His mom inhaled the meal at a frightening speed, like a lion in the circus who’s been starved for days. She looked the part too, the clothes that used to fit her figure now hung off of her frame limply. Her skin had dulled, her hair wasn’t as soft and long as it used to be, skin cold to the touch from her inconsistent eating habits. 

Some nights, like tonight, she scarfs her food down and will probably throw it up later, other nights she refuses to eat at all. It’s a sort of unspoken rule between the Reids that they do not mention the nights her retching can be heard throughout the house. If they don’t discuss it, they can pretend it doesn’t exist at all.

His dad, however, manages to bite back about a third of his plate before looking up.  
“This is amazing, Diana, thank you,” then, he turns to look at Spencer, who’s pushing lumps of food around on his plate and attempting to mask his distaste.  
“Aren’t you going to eat, Spencer? Be grateful for what you’re given?”  
His dad always insisted that Spencer make eye contact, it’s the polite thing to do, but Spencer just couldn’t – even in moments where he was completely comfortable, and in a good mood, he couldn’t maintain eye contact, let alone when his dad is staring him down with those dark eyes as if he’s a cockroach on the bottom of his shoe.  
Reaching forward, he pulled away Spencer’s glass of water away. He ensured that the boy couldn’t fill himself up on water, or use it to try and wash away the taste of the food on his tongue that will otherwise linger. It’s the same method every time.

Spencer peered down at the plate of food. It appeared revolting, more than just unappetizing at this point, now likely cold as well. He wanted nothing more to just take a forkful and eat it, but he felt like he physically couldn’t will himself to, that if he tried he would throw up, or explode, or die. It’s not his fault he can’t stomach it. 

Tears had already begun to well in his eyes, and he felt sick – like there was a stone in his stomach, and another in his throat. 

“Aren’t you going to eat, to say thank you to your mother for cooking dinner for you?”

They sat, and they waited, but it always ended the same way and tonight is no exception – with Spencer, tears streaming down now reddened cheeks, because he couldn’t help it that his body rejects the food, he’s just not hungry, that’s he’s sorry, and William Reid will be on the brink of blowing up. They know well, by now, that he isn’t a man you want to anger, and that he’s fully willing to scream until his throat is raw.  
Gripping his fork tighter, fingers white from the force, his dad reached forward and tugs Spencer’s fork away from him. Scooping up a forkful of food, he forces Spencer to choke it down.

“Why do you have to make this so difficult, Spencer?” He asks, voice low and steady, and furious. His rage bubbles and spits inside of him, attempting to be concealed, but his skin is thin and stretched out over tired bones, and it is translucent. He pushed another forkful of food past Spencer’s trembling lips, the boy barely suppressing the urge to vomit all over the dinner table.  
They get through it, the plate eventually empty, Spencer hiccuping and shuddering as he whimpered. Each time he swallowed, the urge to gag grew stronger. He felt unclean, like he needed to scrub his throat raw with steel wool and bleach every time the food travelled down his oesophagus.

“Was that really so hard, then?”

Nights like tonight inevitably end in Spencer locking himself in the bathroom, hunched over the sink, shuddering. He peered into the mirror that hangs haphazardly above the sink, seeing his bones jut out and his cheeks become puffier and fuller by the day – it’s one of the side effects of consistent vomiting, he learns, a symptom he sees on his mother before he sees it on himself. So is sensitive teeth, something he discovers after a few weeks straight of his mom insisting they cook spaghetti bolognese every night, taking his first sip of soda in a while and being unable to tolerate the carbonation.

The vomit came easily, stomach already churning by the time he’d turned the lock on the bathroom door. It’s sour, and sends a film of glistening sweat against his skin, staining his face with this sort of clammy pallor as his body trembles. His fingers grasped the porcelain edge, completely forgoing all fear of the germs that he knows linger there, shaking from the pressure.  
After a few minutes, he managed to push himself up off the bathroom tile. His knees struggled to bear his weight, bones feeling like they were about to give in as he propped himself up on the kitchen sink again. Fumbling for his toothbrush, he moved to try and rinse the rancid taste from his mouth, scrubbing his tongue over and over. 

The cramped bathroom still smelled rotten, so he opened the window. He peeled off his clothes, the t-shirt that he’d been wearing for the past three days because his mom kept forgetting to go to the laundromat, and left them in a heap on the ground.  
As he stepped up into the shower, he avoided looking again in that mirror, not wanting to see his bruised up skin and protruding bone. He was only eight, and he had always been on the smaller side, but even then he knew he was far too skinny for it to be considered healthy. The water streamed across him, hot but still not hot enough. It left his skin a shade of burning crimson and sent every inch of him screaming, but even that scalding water wasn’t enough to fully wash away the disgusting, dirty feeling. The film of sweat and grime on him was perpetual, inside and out.

Nights where his mom cooks have become increasingly rarer, though, as she got sicker, outnumbered by the days where she’d refuse to take her meds, or stay in bed all day, or William Reid would return home from work too late for a family meal because it’s easier to pretend he got caught up fixing the printer than it is dealing with his family,  
Even when she insists, his dad is hesitant to let her – there’d been numerous times that she felt the oven on and forgotten, burning whatever food into an unintelligible lump of charcoal, times when she’d zone out and accidentally slice her hand open. His dad puts a lock on the knives after that.

It’s now that Spencer’s picky eating becomes less of a hindrance, and more of a blessing. He finds safety in basic foods like dino nuggets and toast and pizza, because they’re not too mushy or slimy or sticky, and he doesn’t mind the repetitiveness of it – in fact, the set-in-stone routine is comforting, and one he hates deviating from. His dad doesn’t mind either, it’s easier to throw a box of dino nuggets in the oven when he comes home from work than it is to cook dinner, and it’s even easier to teach Spencer how to do it for himself.  
So, for a few years, that’s what Spencer does. He eats buttered toast for breakfast, but never buttered straight out of the toaster because then the bread becomes soggy, and drinks it down with a glass of orange juice, never with pulp. For lunch, toast again, but for dinner, he rotates between the same four meals: toast, again, for difficult days where he can’t stomach much else, pizza, dino nuggets, and mac and cheese. Velveeta brand, specifically.

Cooking isn’t his forte, so it works. The knives are locked away and the stovetop barely works, meaning there wasn’t much more he could cook if he wanted to. He’s still too short to reach the cabinets or kitchen counters for the first year or two, though, so he has to keep a stool in the kitchen. It isn’t until he’s 10 that he finally grows tall enough to reach the top shelf  
of the kitchen cabinet if he’s on his tiptoes, just about brushing 5’3.

When he turned 10, more changed than just him growing a couple of inches. His mom got sicker, it got harder to convince her to take her meds, and his dad just couldn’t take it anymore. The evening that brought it all, the straw breaking the camel’s back, was the night Diana forced the young boy awake at the crack of dawn, insisting that “they” were coming and they needed to leave. Fast. Being found in a Walmart parking lot, his mother fast asleep at the wheel, by the security guard was equal parts terrifying and humiliating.

So, his dad left. 

He left in the morning after Sunday mass, telling the pair he was off to speak to a client, and then he never came back. For a day or two, Spencer held onto this crumb of hope that maybe he was just really, really caught up, and for the next few weeks he fell into a new routine; wake up at 5, sit and watch the news until he had to go to school. Just in case there was anything that could explain where William Reid was – maybe there was a car wreck, or a store robbery, and he just couldn’t call them because he was in the hospital.

After a month, he knew his dad wasn’t going to come back. Likely, ever.


	2. somewhere in these eyes, i'm on your side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ty to jonah for proof-reading. also, grant anderson stans rise up

When Spencer had first joined the BAU, he was already pretty scrawny. Six whole feet and one inch of bones poking through milky skin, maybe six-foot-two if his hair was extra wild that day or he wore thick-soled shoes. And although he wore baggy trousers, and his FBI windbreaker layered over baggy jumpers layered over dress shirts, it was still easy to see his willowy frame. His slender body was a cocktail of genetics and an unfortunate upbringing – both of his parents were on the taller, thinner side, and food was a sore subject.

He’d joined the BAU as a baby-faced twenty-two-year-old, with three doctorates and a terrifyingly high IQ under his belt. It was upon Gideon’s recommendation that he’d even gotten on the team, the man having given a couple of Caltech lectures. Everyone knew, of course, that Spencer was insanely smart, but Gideon saw potential there and nurtured it. He was determined to get him on the team, waiving all the physical examinations, citing that Spencer’s intellect alone was an invaluable resource to the team, and a weapon in its own right.

When Spencer met everyone, they were sceptical – people always were, seeing nothing more than a socially awkward kid who’d probably gotten lost on a school trip and somehow ended up there. The team didn’t have much faith in his skill, but within the first few months working there, he’d managed to dispel some of that doubt, when his geographical profiling skill had led to the team’s case turnover rate skyrocketing.

It wasn’t like they snubbed him, the team didn’t try any of the tired tactics he’d just tolerated in highschool (“Oh, sorry dude, I guess there just isn’t enough seats,”) - in fact, JJ actively encouraged him to spend the lunch breaks with everyone else, especially on days when Penelope brought in goods she’d baked the night before. He just didn’t feel like he belonged there.

It was a feeling he was well accustomed to. He’d always been the odd one out; the kid at the party who’d only been invited because the rest of the class had been, the kid who got pushed into group projects because he had no one else to work with, the kid who had to sit at the front of the bus with the teachers on field trips because no one wanted to sit next to him.

And so, he’d just politely decline, say he had paperwork to catch up on, instead choosing to spend his lunch breaks at his desk, knees up, coffee in one hand and whatever new library book in the other. Some days, if he was free, Agent Anderson from downstairs would ask him for advice on a profile, which was really just an excuse to catch up on the newest Doctor Who episode. It was a lonely schedule, sure, but it was what he was used to. 

Despite the resistance, eventually, the team unfurled.

Derek and he got along like brothers. Spencer had never had siblings, he figured that as soon as he started spouting facts about space 24/7 at age 4 that his parents both tapped out. But, he was sure that what he and Derek had was like family. He was a couple of years older, but that only strengthened the bond, and it felt so good knowing he had his back all the time. When Spencer and he went on cases, they were always by each others’ sides. He was ready to defend him, whether it was against a raging unsub or a local who doubted Spencer’s abilities – after all, Derek had been one, once.

He likes to tease. Poking and prodding and stealing swigs of coffee when Spencer pretends not to look; it doesn’t bother him, because unlike his highschool peers there was no malice behind it. When he sees through Spencer's walls of baggy clothes, and points out that he could do with a bit more meat on those bones, it’s not critical – it’s concerned.

Although he’ll never admit it, perhaps not even on his deathbed, Hotch cares for him. He thinks Spencer’s too scrawny, and he’s mastered the art of subtly trying to bulk him up (he notices, of course, he’s a profiler and a genius after all). 

When the team goes out for food, he always insists Spencer take some more fries on his plate. Some days, he comes into the bullpen brandishing a Tupperware container of whatever Haley had cooked for dinner the night before, claiming they had leftovers and Haley insisted he take some. It’s an awful excuse and everyone sees right through it, but they appreciate the effort and so choose to turn a blind eye. Spencer pretends he doesn’t notice Hotch sneak an extra protein bar into his windbreaker pocket when it’s hanging up, either.

Spencer figures it’s simply his Dad Instinct kicking in – ever since Jack was born, Hotch has been a little angrier at the world, colder to the unsubs, a little more protective of the team under his supervision.

When he turns 24, he’s certainly no longer a kid anymore, despite what the other’s insist. He knows that he’ll always be a child to them. And although he isn’t huge on birthdays, they take it upon themselves to organize a celebration. JJ buys this massive sheet cake from the grocery store, cement-like layers of buttercream slathered over chocolate cake. 

They surround Spencer at his desk, whooping and cheering (Derek’s somehow managed to smuggle a party popper in, which he lets off, terrifying everyone in the process), as he tries to blow out all the candles. All 24, haphazardly places because they meant to do it in a pattern but severely underestimated how hard it would be to fit 24 birthday candles on a cake without destroying the lettering.

And Elle leans over, ruffling a manicured hand through Spencer’s hair, and she cuts the biggest slice of cake he’s ever seen. She slices right through the big, wonky cursive red letters (“Happy Birthday, Boy Wonder!” is clearly the work of JJ, though she’s not exactly known for her neat handwriting), and drops it with an unceremonious thump on his paper plate. It’s practically oozing baby blue icing.

“You’re too skinny, niño, you could do with a bit more meat on you.” She hums, pushing the plate a little closer to him and pressing a plastic fork in his grip, “Plus, you’re the birthday boy.”

Elle Greenaway is an excellent undercover agent, and can step into new identities with ease. She thinks quick on her feet, too, able to lie and sweet-talk her way around any situation. All of those skills get thrown out the window with Spencer, though, he can see through her intentions to fatten him up like Hansel in a cage with ease. 

After two years at the BAU, Spencer and JJ go on a date. Well, neither of them call it a date and he’s like 99.9% sure JJ doesn’t feel that way about him, but Gideon and Garcia seem to be conspiring in attempts to get them together, damn the rules against fraternization. 

The thing is, he loves JJ. She’s got this sort of perpetual halo around her, a dim golden glow than not even the worst, most brutal cases can snuff out. And she’s got these blue eyes like the sky that dig straight into him, like she’s peeling back layers of skin and muscle, picking him apart to peer straight into his soul. And she’s got this kind smile, and she always insists he eat lunch with her and open up a bit more. She’s the only person in the whole wide world who calls him “Spence”, and every time she does he melts a little bit more.

He loves her, but he’d grown up always wishing he had an older sister. To him, that’s all JJ was.

It’s free tickets though, and an excuse to get out on what would otherwise have been an evening curled up on the couch watching Law and Order, so he goes anyway. At the start, JJ buys this massive packet of hot Cheetos and washes it down with a cup of soda, insisting that Spencer can share the chips (but not the soda, sharing a straw transmits too many germs for him).

She loves them, and it’s sort of an unspoken agreement that JJ has the best snack stash on the floor, and she’s willing to barter work favours for chips or candy. Whenever Agent Anderson comes up to the floor, he always makes sure to offer to make JJ a coffee in return for a candy bar. But Cheetos are her favourite, and she’s particularly protective of them, so Spencer’s quite surprised when she offers to share.

He tries his best to sit still and stay quiet, to let JJ enjoy the game because he knows how much of a sports fanatic she is, but he cracks at halftime. As he launches into a detailed history of football, JJ turns to him with the widest smile he’s ever seen her wear. She waits a moment, attentive, soaking up every word. Spencer pauses to take a breath, and she interjects;

“Spence, you want one?” JJ asks, shoving the pack of Cheetos towards him, encouraging him to take one with a gentle shake of the bag. And although he knows he doesn’t like them, and probably hasn’t had them since highschool, he’s unable to resist.

“Thanks,” With a sheepish smile, he bites into the chip, suppressing a gag at the repulsive texture. Despite his eidetic memory, he’s somehow forgotten just how much he hates them. It turns from light and crunchy to a cheesy, plastic-tasting mush that coats his entire mouth.

Forcing a grin, he takes a mental note to never do that ever again, and he turns back to the game.

The next morning when he walks into the bullpen, bright and early in the morning, Derek’s already waiting at his desk. Word’s probably gotten around the team that JJ and he went to the game together – it’s unsurprising, considering how tight-knit they’ve become – and Derek’s secretly a huge gossip.

Falling back into his desk chair, Spencer clasps a mug of ridiculously-oversweetened coffee in one hand, pinching at the bridge of his nose with the other. It’s too early to be awake. But, of course, he isn’t allowed even one moment of reprieve from Morgan’s cheeky smile and playful banter, as the man claps a hand on his shoulder proudly.

“So, how was that date of yours, Pretty Boy?”

  
  



	3. was she ever found?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> elle angst. i think their relationship was under developed, hopefully this gave some more insight. 
> 
> tyasm for your very kind comments! they really do make my day and motivate me :-)
> 
> cw: brief mentions of blood, ptsd on elle’s part, grief and depression

Despite Spencer's hesitation at first, over the few years they’d been operating together, the team had really fallen into place. It felt whole, it felt right, like the stars had all aligned and everything was going to plan for once.

He takes newcomers in stride, because this is a family, and he knows just how hard it is to be a stranger trying to weave yourself into such a tight-knit group. When he meets Penelope Garcia for the first time after her recruitment to the FBI, he makes sure she knows that there’s at least one person on the team who’s got her back. Plus, she’s the only person he knows who’s Doctor Who knowledge rivals his own. Agent Anderson comes close, but he prefers Star Trek.

Her and Derek get along almost terrifyingly well, and they are a force to be reckoned with when they’re together. They’re so in tune they can finish each others’ sentences. It’s established early on that the pair are not to be messed with, and anyone who even thinks about starting a prank war will suffer dearly.

And Penelope, JJ and Elle, they’re like high school girls, always planning sleepovers at each others’ places and ‘girls’ nights’ (which Spencer assumes are quite different from the ‘guy’s nights’ that Derek proposes). Most lunch breaks now, the trio can be found huddled around the break room table gossiping about the super cute local officer on the last case, or about how their date last week didn’t end well because the guy collected stuffed animals.

Things fall into a comfortable routine. It feels more like an unlikely family than a team of co-workers, and the structure Spencer once lacked is now here in surplus.

Gideon takes on the role of surrogate father, though he’s never really been good at that sort of thing. The two of them stumble through it together, and pretend that him taking Spencer bird watching on weekends and letting him list him as an imaginary contact makes up for the years of absence on William Reid’s part, and that it makes up for Gideon’s abandonment of his own son. Some nights, the genius can’t help but wonder if out there, his dad has found his own surrogate, him too attempting futilely to repent.

The girls are his sisters (though Elle insists she’s more of a cool aunt) and Derek is his brother. Early on, Spencer learn that blood is not necessary to make a family, but instead the determination to keep everyone safe. Sometimes it’s the big things, like hostage situations or showdowns with unsubs, but other times it’s just the way Elle prowls, waiting for someone to doubt Spencer’s ability, ready to pounce and grip him between her sharp, unforgiving claws. She’d pointedly refer to him as Doctor Reid for the rest of the day.

The team protects each other with an unwavering ferocity that sometimes lands them in trouble with Hotch. It’s better to be reprimanded by him, though, than Gideon – because despite how utterly terrifying Hotch is when he reprimands Spencer, at least he doesn’t threaten to write a very disappointed letter to Diana Reid about his antics.

But, of course, nothing lasts forever.

Randall Garner happens, and suddenly the team realizes that Elle is a ticking time bomb begging to explode, to leave nothing but destruction in her wake. Chaos follows her, envelopes her in a second skin, and everyone is caught in her web. He’d read the dictionary back to back, but it wasn’t until then that he realized Spencer Reid and collateral damage were synonymous.

After a few days out of the hospital, Spencer finally gets to see her again. She’s all bruised up, still, and winces every time she shifts in her seat, but she’s alive at least. 

They’re in her new apartment, a one bedroom with horrible floral wallpaper, leased on incredibly short notice because she just couldn’t bear to stay in her old place. Her blood had stained the walls, and the couch, a screaming scarlet that refused to wash out despite the cleanup crew’s best efforts. 

Elle and Spencer sit on the couch, the rest of the room totally empty aside from a cardboard box for a coffee table, which Elle has kicked her feet up onto. She grips a bottle of beer in one hand so tight that they’re both surprised it hasn’t exploded yet, and offers one to Spencer.

He’s been on the team long enough to know that they all share one common flaw. They all do this thing where they refuse to admit that there’s something wrong, in hopes that it would resolve itself with time. He knows he also does it, but that won’t stop him from getting frustrated. 

Spencer figures it’s because of the job, pushing everyone into perpetual conflict – everyone is so caught up trying to alleviate other people’s main and mitigate the tragedy that there was never time to tend to oneself. It felt wasteful to devote even a second to their own lives, knowing that there was always someone out there who needed them more than they needed them.

Elle has a PhD in ignoring her problems. Instead of acknowledging the detrimental effects on her mental and physical well-being that being shot only days prior would inevitably present, she instead insists that she’s ready to get back to the field. It doesn’t matter that she still flinches and twists and whimpers in her sleep, as if Garner is digging his fingers through her flesh again and again. And when she wakes up from her sleep, covered in a thin film of cold sweat, shaking, she pretends everything is normal, despite the way her hands always shoot to her stomach to nurse the wound.

“I’m fine, niño,” She insists with an eye roll, like it’s the stupidest question she’s ever heard, “I’m ready to go back. The team needs me and I need them.”

Spencer chews his lip, debating his words carefully. He watches as her eyes scan his spindly frame. Elle does this often, picking him apart, him and his baggy t-shirts that swallow him whole and his bony fingers that always look like they’re about to snap in two. She’s profiling, she always is despite the rules the team keeps, deciding he’s too fragile to keep himself safe. _If the team cannot protect her, how can they protect him?_

“Okay.” Spencer nods slowly, “I believe in you.”

Elle needs him and he needs Elle, but he can’t always come through. Four months later, when her hand reaches out, he fumbles and she slips out of his reach.

She jumps the gun, compromises the case and gets herself in trouble with the higher ups. Strauss is pissed, reasonably, but Hotch is angrier than anyone’s ever seen him. It’s more than just the mountain of paperwork that comes alongside the incident, it’s the trust in Elle destroyed completely. Elle resigns, she’s far too proud to let herself get fired.

Everyone can tell she’s been walking on a tightrope for weeks now and was bound to fall at any second, but they never expected her to fall so far. Spencer isn’t sure she’s even hit the ground.

It takes a few days for grieving for him to realise that Agent Elle Greenaway died four months ago on her living room couch.

He’s been through his fair share of abandonment in his life, and he knows that blaming himself will only do more harm, but he can’t stop himself. In her wake she leaves a hole in his heart; a gaping, cavernous hole that only grows and grows with each passing day, feeding on his misery and blame, swallowing each bone and tendon and muscle as it devours everything it can. His appetite disappears, and so does he, and some nights he lies awake in bed, missing her, wondering if the hole really is growing or if he is just shrinking.

The BAU does not have time for grief. There are people to catch, to lock away, to guide through pain and recovery. As soon as Elle is gone there is a replacement. Her name is Emily. She’s a decade older than Spencer but doesn’t treat him like it, never doubting his capabilities for a second. An echo of laughter follows her wherever she goes, but she demands respect and she gets it. He takes her in, he always will, because that’s what family does.

And although she’s compassionate, and she’s funny, and he quite enjoys her presence on the team, he can’t help but want Elle back. Emily fills up all the space that Elle once did, there is no room in the bullpen even for a ghost anymore. The team sometimes feels more like a unit of troops, expendable assets to the bureau.

Some days Spencer handles it well, pulling himself up out of bed and easing through the day with barely a thought spared to Elle, or the lack thereof. He’ll eat lunch with Agent Anderson and speed through his files in record time.

Other days, things don’t go quite to plan. He wakes up and the guilt weighs on him like a boot that presses against his fragile sternum and into his ribs, further and further, threatening to break him apart. It’s unforgiving, unyielding. And though he wants to get up, he can’t, because he learned now that if he is a soldier, then she was too, and there is no winning in war and he’s learned this now. Each case weighs heavy on Spencer’s chest even after the bad guy has been caught.

It’s a few weeks after Elle’s departure that Hotch calls Spencer into his office. It’s a neat little room with everything perfectly arranged, desk always polished and the walls painted a bland magnolia, and he hates it there, much preferring the casual comfort of the bullpen. Hotch offers him a seat, and he takes it to be polite, but the hard wood grinds into his spine, and it’s so hard to focus when he’s on the verge of breaking.

“How are you holding up, Spencer?” Hotch asks, forgoing all formalities. If he’d be having this discussion with any one of the other agents, it might have been a discussion between colleagues, maybe even friends. But Spencer recognises the tone Hotch takes on, the same comforting voice he uses with Jack. 

He bites his tongue, considering his words with care before he speaks because he knows he can’t afford to be replaced, no matter how expendable he may be.

“I’m okay, Hotch.”

The supervisor sees right through him, Spencer knows he does. Hotch peers past baggy sweaters and pallid skin stretched out over needle-thin bones, and he sees the greedy, gaping hole in the agent’s heart that begs to devour him more and more, threatens to swallow him up whole. He sees it.

Hotch nods.

“I’m glad to hear that.”


	4. tender is the night for a broken heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bit delayed, sorry. special thanks to @bobbydrake for motivating me to finish this and proofreading it for me (seriously, go check out their story its AMAZING). 
> 
> also i am not an ornithologist, i simply like pigeons, please don't come for me about inaccuracies here i really tried my best
> 
> forgot to mention earlier but my tumblr is @hesperldes if you're so inclined to harass me

He’s 22 years and 4 months old the first time Gideon takes him birdwatching. The man studies ornithology in his free time outside of the BAU, and he’s just as skilled at identifying different species as he is identifying a killer on the field.

Spencer knows statistics about birds. He knows their migratory patterns and the species that are native to Las Vegas, DC, Quantico, and wherever else he goes. Gideon’s knowledge, though, extends beyond just what a book can teach.

Gideon’d offered the idea up a few weeks after Spencer joined the BAU, seeing how the genius skirted around his teammates. He was too cautious, careful, constantly wound up and waiting for something to go wrong. Someone to get sick of him, blow up at him, anything. And saying no is something Spencer is utterly incapable of, so he goes.

When they get there, a favourite spot of Gideon’s apparently, they stay quiet. The silence is one the pair readily embrace, neither getting much reprieve from the constant hum of life at the BAU. There’s usually always someone talking, or typing, or moving on their squeaky chair. Even when there isn’t, Spencer can still hear the buzz of the lights above him and the computer at his desk.

Living in the city, he’s grown used to the perpetual urban murmur, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to soak up the silence.

The second time they go, about a month later, Gideon strikes up a conversation. He points to a bird on the floor of the forest with a deep crimson plumage, so vibrant it’s color appears almost synthetic. It’s black-winged, the stripes of darkness converging at its tail in a v-shape. Watching the bird as hops around, he informs Spencer that it’s a scarlet tanager, and an adult male by the looks of it.

“ Piranga olivacea,” Gideon tells him, “That’s the Latin name.”

Peering down at the bird again, Spencer furrows his brow. He looks closer, eyes drawn by its bright feathers, and then turns to his mentor.

“ Why would you name a bird ‘olive green’ when it’s clearly dark red?” The older man chuckles, shaking his head slightly as if he’s explained this a million times before already. He thumbs through the pages of a bird guide, trying to find the page on the scarlet tanager.

“ The name came from a female specimen, or perhaps a young,” he explains with a soft voice, growing brighter as he turns back to look at the tanager, now fluttering up to its perch high up in the trees. The scarlet tanager usually nests very high up, Gideon tells him later, they’re lucky they get to even see it.

“ They’re a very different color, it’s quite striking,” Holding the bird guide open with his thumb and forefinger, he shows it to Spencer, pointing with the other hand to the illustration of the female variant, vivid chartreuse. Spencer can’t help but wonder why human’s don’t come in a variety of colors like birds do, instead being various shades of brown and peach. He supposes that’s what clothes are for, then.

  
  


The third time they go birdwatching is about two years later. Scheduling conflicts and cases meant that they barely had time to spend together, but Gideon somehow makes it happen. They’d just gotten off of a particularly painful case, where a woman had been wrongfully executed for a crime she didn’t commit, and everyone had gotten on the jet with heavy hearts.

It’s something about the woman, Sarah Jean, that seems to strike a chord within Gideon. From his seat on the jet, he watches Spencer with a careful, considering gaze, as if he’s contemplating every life choice he’s made up until that moment.

So, that’s how they find themselves here. They’re approaching the same spot as before, hiking up a slight hill. Golden sunlight spills onto the underbrush, filtered into dappled splotches by the canopy of trees. Spencer can feel the soft squelch of slightly-damp mud beneath his boots, feel the freshness of the air from the rain that prior night. They’re enveloped in green, and drowning in the early morning song of nesting birds.

A foot or two ahead of him, Gideon walks. He’s wearing his signature maroon fleece and a pair of scuffed-up jeans that probably lived through the civil war by the looks of them, attempting to combat the frostiness of the spring mornings. Spencer, however, did not come so prepared, and was now tugging on a sweater haphazardly.

They don’t get very far when Gideon stops in his tracks. The birdsong has quieted down slightly, and the pair have each sobered up a bit from their dreary 5-am exhaustion (not without the aid of multiple cups of sugary coffee on Spencer’s part, of course). Disgruntled, the genius lets out a small ‘ _ hmph’ _ of confusion as he moves to see why Gideon’s stopped.

It’s a bird. Laying still on the ground, only twitching slightly. It’s tail feathers and wings are a dull black, striped with a cream colour, whilst its body takes on a taupe hue. The breast of the bird is pale, eggshell yellow. One wing is bent at a strange angle, and the dirt around it is stained a darker reddish-brown.

“ It’s a goldfinch,” Gideon informs him as he crouches down to inspect the bird closer. Tentatively, he reaches out, and brushes a calloused finger against its matted feathers. He whispers a ‘shh’ slowly, as if to soothe the poor creature as it withers, despite the fact the bird wouldn’t understand. Perhaps it was more to soothe himself, or just feel like he was doing something to help.

“ A young one by the looks of it,” He motions to the dull brown coloring on the bird’s back, “Adult males are a bright yellow, the female is a darker brown.”

Taking a deep, sad breath, Gideon leans closer to assess the damage on the bird’s wing. Whatever happened to it, it’s clear to the three of them that the bird won’t survive it.

Standing still, Spencer watches. He watches with wide eyes as the tiny chest of the bird rises and falls, each heaving breath becoming more and more unsteady and infrequent. He wants nothing more than to reach forward and soothe it, provide some comfort to this suffering animal in its last moments, but he can’t will himself to. He’s always been a little too abrasive, too much, he doesn’t want to do that here. So, he just stands, and he watches, and eventually, the bird’s breathing comes to a stop.

He imagined inside that bird, a teeny tiny ribcage the size of a plum, maybe, so delicate and vulnerable despite its important job. That is all that shields the little thing’s heart from death, and it feels like an awfully unreliable defense.

“ A group of them is called a charm, you know,” Chuckling, Gideon looks back up at Spencer, flickering gaze tearing apart his stance as if were an appropriate time to do so (there never was, the BAU had strict rules on inter-team profiling).

“ It comes from their song.” There’s a rustle. Gideon scoops up a handful of dry leaves, delicately covering the bird. It’s a crude sort of grave, not even a burial, but it’s the best he can probably do to honor the thing.

“ Everything deserves it,” the elder explains as he hoists himself up, “A proper burial is the least anyone could ask for.”

They begin to walk again, but Spencer just can’t get the sight of the thing out of his mind. He knows all about the goldfinch, of course, of its symbolism and religious connotation. It’s a saviour bird, swallowing up everything evil and rotten and no good in its path, absorbing it without a moment to think about the consequence. It represents endurance, persistence, pushing through adversity and coming out on top.

He wants to tell Gideon, release the floodgate of his mind and ease his conscience by telling him all about the goldfinch, but he finds he can’t. It feels too mocking. Too ironic to tell of how the fragile bird is supposed to represent endurance even once it’s died. So, he keeps his mouth shut.

It’s a few minutes further into their trek that Gideon finally speaks. His voice is slightly croaky, low with a slight sadness that he usually hides well. The silence he breaks has begun to hang heavier in the air than before, and Spencer’s grateful for the distraction before it can swallow him whole, greedy and merciless.

“ Birds have hollow bones, you now,” He notes. Spencer knows, of course, but the words feel like more than just a fun fact when they spill from Gideon’s mouth; he nods.

“ It makes flight easier, doesn’t weigh them down as much.”

“ I wouldn’t be surprised if you had hollow bones, too,” Sparing a glance over at the genius, Gideon hums. His stomach lurches with discomfort. Spencer knows exactly what the older agent means, and he hates that he’s right.


End file.
